The legionaries came to a halt, with blank wonder on their faces, and their officer, with no less astonishment, turned his eyes on Caesar for his orders.
Martialis silently stooped and kissed Neæra on the lips. Then he slowly drew his sword from his sheath, and gravely saluted his comrades.
‘He refuses to surrender himself,’ said Tiberius to Macro, without removing his eyes from Martialis; ‘I have sent for you to secure him—alive, if possible; if not, dead.’
The task was repugnant from every point of view, and the legionaries showed it by the want of alacrity and spirit in the preparations they made to carry out the mandate. But to hear was to obey, and Macro, who, perhaps, felt less scruple than the rank and file, in consequence of a jealousy of Martialis, desired the latter to deliver up his weapon.
‘Come and take it,’ said Martialis; ‘these are my only terms. Our fellowship is fated to end in a way we never dreamt of; blame me not, but those who have dragged my betrothed hither from her home—I will not give her up.’
The faces of the men darkened, and dissatisfied mutterings broke from their lips. The order to draw up in line and prepare for their work was obeyed sullenly and slowly. Martialis was popular, and his words and position inspired them with additional sympathy.
‘Do as ye are bid,’ cried Martialis, as he noted the signs of dissatisfaction; ‘nought else will avail.’
But, as their fingers tightened on their weapons, an unlooked-for occurrence changed the position of affairs.
Caesar’s eyes were still riveted on the curtain which hung at the back of the Centurion’s beleaguered corner. As the last words were spoken, a tremulous motion stirred the heavy folds. Then they were suddenly and silently parted immediately behind the lovers, and through the opening the gigantic form of the Nubian body-servant was launched upon the Centurion in rear. The steward followed him like a shadow, and simultaneously gripped Neæra from behind. The surprised and helpless girl was speedily dragged apart and disarmed, but to force her lover to succumb was a more difficult task. His weapon, poised readily but lightly in his hand, was whirled away by a sudden blow, and the horror-stricken Centurion, at the same instant, felt himself strained in an embrace which well-nigh stopped his respiration. By a marvellous contraction and eel-like movement of his body, however, he succeeded in releasing his arms and twisting himself into a position more face to face with his assailant. He was thus enabled to grapple on fairer terms, and a terrible struggle began.
The Nubian, as we have already said, was a giant in stature. He topped his tall antagonist by a head, and enfolded him with an overwhelming bulk. His huge, thick limbs and muscles, his vast breadth of chest, denoted enormous power; but it was a slow, ponderous, elephantine strength, overloaded with the superfluous flesh of ease and good feeding. On the other hand, his opponent was lithe, supple, and active as a tiger—a consummate athlete, with thews and sinews of steel. In addition, he was inspired with a fury it is impossible to describe,—rage at the manner in which he had been tricked—agony of desperation as he heard the faint cry of Neæra.